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Some people live for the weekends. Day in and day out, they pine for its coming and wish that the weekdays were shorter, and that the clock would tick faster. Some even wake up to a brand new morning and wish that it was already the ending to one hell of a tiring week.

Not me.

I’ve always lived my life one excruciatingly slow day at a time. I live for the day-to-day mundane occurrences that drag me down, and wear me out. I live for the difficult challenges that plague my every waking hour, made easy by brief moments of pure inspiration. I live for the stolen glances, the casual nods, the awkward smiles, the simple conversations, and the meaningful moments spent with meaningful people.

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“Everything that is happening, is preparation for the next iteration.”

I’ve come up with a few dozen lines in my life to try to make sense of the things that happened around me, and this was just one of them. I guess it was because for some time I felt that I was going through the same events over and over again, and though at certain times it felt exciting, I suddenly realized that it was getting frustrating knowing the ending to a story that was still starting. It took the life out of living, and everything seemed to be one agonizing routine.

It doesn’t hurt to think of things that might have happened had things been different; most would be sure to say that things might have been better had this been the outcome, or had that been the road that was taken. Unfortunately for me, and for the rest of humanity, the concept of time travel is something you’ll only read in science fiction. What’s done is done, so they say. I’m also pretty sure that even if I took the other path, I’d find some new reason to make me silent with contemplation.

I once wrote something about patterns, and how I had gotten tired of them. I had gotten tired of being the punchline in a joke that was never even funny in the first place. It was like having a TV series running for six or seven seasons, all with just the same episode playing over and over again. Running the same gag routine was becoming annoying already.

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Lazarus Crowe was getting restless. With each passing day, he felt like he could no longer bear with the emotions that were boiling inside him. Only a few more days, and he’d be off to a new journey. It was something that he had been looking forward to for a couple of years now, but now it almost seemed as if he were standing on the edge of a high building, and he was getting nauseous from staring down at the unknown that lay before him.

His life was probably as ordinary as the one that you’re living right now, so it annoyed him whenever the people around him made a big deal out of the things that he had done. He wasn’t a movie star, and he strongly felt that there was no need for his personal life to be made into a circus sensation. His departure was no exception either; he had a lot of friends asking him repeatedly to have one last drinking session with them, or one last game of basketball. What’s this, am I going to die or something? Lazarus wondered about this as he tried to find it in his schedule to fit all of the “last” things that he would be doing before he left.